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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036406">tithe to hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon'>Maiden_of_the_Moon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>by the inscrutable decree of Providence [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, But it never ends, Kidfic- But Make it Eldritch, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Yes the book was Martin's, avatars gonna avatar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:13:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Statement of Daracha Gilkison, regarding a changeling she found in a tree.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>by the inscrutable decree of Providence [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tithe to hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Disclaimer:</i> Still no.</p><p><i>Author’s Note:</i> I have… I have so many other things to be doing… why @ me… </p><p><i>Warnings:</i> I apologize for my attempts at regional flair re: dialogue. No beta. Usual poor editing, lol. The internet tells me that the “tithe to Hell” was a Scottish <i>lowlands</i> fairy belief, but… c’mon. C’mon.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
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  <p>tithe to hell</p>
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</div>“It was… It was the hair, methinks,” Daracha Gilkison shudders, the lines in her face darkening. There is a depth to her certainty, reflected both in her wrinkles and by the way she swigs her ale. “Well, no. <i>Obviously</i> t’was the tree that first tipped me off. There’s but one good reason to leave a bairn in such a place. But once I got a good peek in that hollow… Aye, I’d say it was the hair.”<p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“Well, the police’d have me call it tow-colored, wouldn’t they?” the old woman scoffs, waving a hand as if to dismiss a battalion of absent officers. Its backswing throws a bar fly off its trajectory, and clears the air of enough smoke that she might cant forward to whisper, “A child with the skin I’d have to describe? Hard enough to convince ‘em her hair was blonde, never mind <i>white</i>. But it was. White as mine, I’d say, if it weren’t so… so <i>ethereal</i> in nature. It curled around her wee head like candlelight refracted by crystal lenses, and seemed to me as soft as the sea-fog that’d begun rollin’ in. Never seen a babe so fae in all my years, and that’s saying something, in these parts.</p><p>Now, this is the modern age we’re living in, of course. There’s a time and a place for respecting the Folk, and I’ll hear no word against that. But I’m not crazy, am I? I didn’t jump straight to… to a <i>changeling</i>, no. Made more sense to assume that we had stumbled upon an abandoned child, and I did yer dinger right there in that empty field. There are services, ye ken? Places you can call and people you can go to if yer bairn…</p><p>In any case, the poor dear was snug-a-bug and sleeping sound. You’d never seen a sweeter babe— looked an angel in her chubby perfection. My son, Lewis, tried to call for help, but service in these parts is spotty on the best of days. No houses nor villages nearby, either. Best we knew, there was no one for miles but that tall man near the pastures… some sassenach who’d given us a cheerful hello at the mouth of the trail. Lewis had struck a brief conversation— I think he was my boy’s type— and he mentioned being there to keep an eye on a hungry poddy. Thinking back on it now, that was the first odd thing to happen, mundane though it was. I dinnae recall seeing <i>any</i> cows out that day… never mind motherless calves. </p><p>Anyway. We debated for a time, Lewis and I. But in the end, there was naught but one choice, wasn’t there? We couldn’t leave the girl to freeze. So I took her, gently, from that misshapen tree. Fit right perfect in my arms, she did, such that it was almost magical… and though the bairn was right icy, her pulse was fine and she was breathing. She should be all right, we figured, till we made it to the nearest A&amp;E. </p><p>That was when it all went… wrong. </p><p>The mist. It had been rising steady since our hike began, and by the time we reached that tree, we could barely see beyond our noses. I can’t think of how to describe that mist in a way that does it justice. There was a— a mercurial quality to it, the likes of which I’d never before paid witness. The thick of it, and the soft. It was as if the hand of God were tucking a hundred-thousand shrouds over you, infinitesimal and gossamer and one by one, and you somehow knew in the place-beneath-yer-bones that when He was done laying those veils, you’d be stuck on… on the other side of ‘em. </p><p>We tried to walk faster. Or as fast as we safely could, what with the babe in my arms. She was still dozing, at that point, unbothered by my frustration nor aware of my son’s mounting panic. It wasn’t even that we were quiet. But something about that mist— it was worse than snow in how it smothered. No matter how loudly we shouted for help, or to each other, or <i>at</i> each other… there remained between us some unbreachable chasm. One that couldn’t be spanned by word nor touch. Lewis and I never quite lost sight of each other, but somehow that made the sudden separation between us worse. I even think I started to resent my boy, who didnae seem to consider how holding the bairn might slow me down, or tire me out. He kept to his own comfortable pace, and in so doing always looked a minute away from leaving us behind. </p><p>I couldn’t tell you how long we walked. Reason would assume hours. I’d claim days. And all that while, we saw naught but— but that <i>tree</i>. That tree alone would appear from the ether, sketched onto the otherwise blank easel of the horizon. There were no rocks anymore, nor craigs, nor hills, nor mountains, nor heath… just mist and that tree, emerging with such regularity from the void before us that we soon realized it was the only thing on which we might reasonably keep time. Our watches read nonsense. Our phones were dead. But once an hour, that tree would appear— still with the babe’s blankets tucked cozily inside— and we would do our best to ignore it. To pretend we could not see it. To act as if we both had not come, independently, to the same conclusion: </p><p>That we were not in our own world any longer.</p><p>Far as I can tell, fate’ve been well-pleased to see us there condemned. Imprisoned in the cold and swirling cloud of otherworldly nihility, together and alone. Might’ve even been what we deserved, speaking frankly… It’s no as if we’d not been warned. All that folklore, all those stories. And yet, we were still fool enough to take that fae child from her cradle. I just about gave up hope. </p><p>But— But then, upon passing that tree for Lord-knows what time, the small creature opened her eyes, and… </p><p>My head’s a bit loupin’ now, but I swear I had my faculties in that moment— and with God as my witness, that babe had more eyes than I could count. I dinnae ken how to explain it. She had only two sockets, that much is true. And in them were but two eyes. Just those. <i>Only</i> those. And yet… yet she also had so many <i>more</i> than those: as green as new spring leaves and somehow more transplendent. </p><p>I… well. I do suppose I said she looked an <i>angel</i>, didn’t I?</p><p>I screamed. My son couldn’t hear it, but I swear I shook that fuckin’ tree’s dead, knotty branches bare with my shrieking alone. And as soon as I could work my limbs, I put that spirit back into her hollow, and I ran. I ran and ran and ran, until… until, suddenly, I was again surrounded by the highlands that I had known since my girlhood. Rocks and craigs and hills and… and all of it. Lewis found me in a heather patch not too long after, looking no less dazed. But the way he tells it, I had a spell of madness, and am now spinning yarns about a babe who he’s swears he’s never seen, and tells me dinnae exist.” </p><p>Daracha’s empty tankard hits the table with enough force to judder everything atop it: keys, coasters, miscellaneous sundries. There is a plastic <i>click</i> as a shaken tape recorder turns itself off. </p><p>The man who sits across from Daracha pulls that tape recorder closer.</p><p>“How terrible,” he sympathizes. <i>Jon</i> sympathizes. That’s the name he had given after mistaking Daracha for his associate Gertrude. Had bought Daracha the ale to apologize, then slid into the booth opposite her and asked if she was quite all right. She doesn’t remember him placing the tape recorder between them, but obviously he must’ve done. </p><p>Daracha shrugs, face averted. It doesn’t stop her from feeling Jon’s gaze. “That’s a word for it, I suppose.” </p><p>“<i>Terrible</i>,” Jon repeats, no less empathetic. “Made all the worse by how isolated the experience has left you feeling.” His voice is resonant in a way that carries beneath the other noises in the bar— traveling as a secret does—, and Daracha finds that despite his lowness and the bar’s loudness, she can hear him with both clarity and ease. “Well, as I said… it’s almost serendipitous, our meeting like this, Mrs. Gilkison. The work that Gertrude and I do has put us in contact with a number of excellent medical professionals. Should you decide to seek help— which I would highly encourage, having now heard your story myself— I would be happy to provide you with the contact information of a few therapists who specialize in recovery from… this particular type of trauma.”</p><p>“That so?” Daracha frowns, chewing on her windbitten lip. There is still a chill lingering upon it. “D’you think t’was… well. Was it really… so bad as <i>trauma</i>?” she asks, almost with guilt. Certainly with anxiety.</p><p>Beneath his messy, white-silver scars and neat, black-silver goatee, Jon’s expression softens. </p><p>“You experienced something deeply disturbing and distressing that few others understand, and it threatens to put a rift between you and your son,” he says. “As I understand it, that is the very <i>definition</i> of trauma.”</p><p>Daracha blinks at that, surprised by the simplicity of Jon’s answer. By his candor and lack of judgement. As a girl, she had always been told— well. It’s true enough that she has always been a bit overly sensitive. But… </p><p>“Aye, I suppose that’s… hmm,” the woman murmurs, slow. Musing. Gingerly, she reaches for the business card that Jon plucks from a smart gold case, but does not bother examining its names or numbers. Instead, she considers Jon’s face. “D’you… do you have any children?”   </p><p>“Oh.” Jon brightens immediately, and with such vibrance that he almost seems to glow. It’s an answer in itself, really. Still, he is pleased enough to gloat, “My husband and I have a daughter, yes. Pearl. She’s the apple of my Eye.”</p><p>“Naturally.” Daracha chuckles. The card turns between her fingers. “How old’s yer bairn, then?”</p><p>“Half a year, soon,” Jon preens. His arm twitches, as if he were physically preventing himself from pulling out a wallet full of photos. “It’s an exciting time at home. We’ve, ah. Just begun experimenting with… solid food.” This last bit is presented like a joke, laughter audible under his breath. </p><p>The punchline eludes Daracha. Which is awkward, if only a bit. But beyond that confusion, well— it doesn’t matter, does it? Not really. What’s important are Jon’s affections for his daughter, which are, at once, an infectious, nostalgic, encouraging, and galvanizing thing to witness. They inspire Daracha. They spur her. </p><p><i>Traumatic</i> or not, she decides in that bar, what she had endured with Lewis was awful enough on its own; she has no desire to let bitter feelings about their experience fester within her, or further poison her relationship with her only child. </p><p>“Well, then.” Calmly, but with purpose, Jon begins to gather his belongings from the booth: the tape recorder, his coat. A book from the library he’d mentioned needing to return— a copy of <i>Outlander</i>, according to the spine. “I’ve darkened your metaphorical doorstep long enough, I imagine.”</p><p>“What? Oh, no— no.” Sitting up straighter, Daracha shakes her head, as well as her thoughts temporarily from it. “No, I’ll hear none of that. If anything, I found our talk <i>enlightening</i>. Ah, but I suppose you ought to be finding yer Gertrude, aye?” With a touch of friendly flair, Daracha slips the card into her pocket and pats it once. Then she extends her emptied hand. “Thank you, Jon. For listening. And for yer help.”   </p><p>Looking startled but pleased, Jon pauses by their table’s edge, wrapping Daracha’s palm in fingers that shine with a nacreous burn. His smile has gained teeth. His eyes are enchantingly green. </p><p>“Oh no, Mrs. Gilkison,” he breathes, sonorous. Sincere. “Thank <i>you</i>.”</p>
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